Redemption
by ToTheBlueberry
Summary: My idea of how Cas got Dean out of Perdition, because it was never really explained in the show, as well as their first "meeting". I may have changed a few things, but that's what fanfic is for :b. Rated M for gory Hell scenes in the first few chapters. Chapters will, for the most part, be posted 2 at a time.
1. Dante's Inferno

**My idea of how Cas got Dean out of Perdition. I may have changed a few things, but that's what fanfic is for. Chapters will, for the most part, be posted 2 at a time.**

Hell is a place of stellar first impressions. It really strives to create an imprint on its visitors, an experience that they will never forget. For that, it's commendable.

The first thing that struck Castiel was the smell. There was the ever-present brimstone, but there were a few other scents fighting for attention. The flurries of ash and cinder floating in the air smelled of burnt trees. Then came the underlying iron tang of blood, and fires being fueled by things that definitely didn't belong in fires.

There was also the sound. Horrible, earthy moans, punctuated with occasional coarse screams that put a shiver down your spine.

He walked amongst the crags of dully shining obsidian, the lowly slums in the 7th circle that some of the spirits had learned to call a dwelling. Not home, not nearly: but the closest thing to something like that down here.

He walked quickly, head down to avoid unwanted attention. He didn't need to give the spirits any reason to think he was different than the other billions of souls that filtered through here. He didn't need them to know that he wasn't dead, and he definitely didn't need them to know that he was, in fact, an angel. So he had to ignore them. As much as it pained him to see the confusion and pain of human suffering, he was only here to save one.

Dean Winchester, the righteous man who most definitely didn't belong in hell.

Dean Winchester, the selfless man.

Dean Winchester, the self-sacrificer who sealed his own death and eternal torment to save the life of his brother.

Castiel just needed to find him, amidst the billions of other hopeless souls occupying hell. He would undoubtedly be in one of the more secluded divisions.

In all honesty, Castiel had no idea where to start. He only knew that the man was being kept somewhere in the middle of Limbo, closer to the throne room. Assumedly so the King could keep watch on him.

He walked. And walked. Time was different in Hell, so he wasn't quite sure for how long. But he needed to save his celestial energy for the return trip, which would undoubtedly be challenging.

He found the simple motion of putting one foot in front of the other to be very confining. But he knew it would be worth it the moment he found the man, the moment he fulfilled his one purpose.

So he walked past the spirits flickering aimlessly through their forced existence, through the darkened fields of Limbo filled with grieving moans. He only chanced the occasional glance up to study his surroundings.

He looked up towards the blank ceiling that was much too high to see. It acted as a sky, a black, starless, moonless sky that didn't permit anything in the way of light.

In fact, the only way he was able to see at all was by the fires burning all around. And, of course, the grace burning through him would provide him sufficient light should the fires go out. But that hopefully wouldn't be something he had to worry about.

Castiel walked, gradually noting less fires pitted in the charred landscape as he did. What little light the hellfire provided slowly dwindled as he left the obsidian slums behind. The air seemed to get thicker, accumulating an ozone smell.

The landscape grew darker until the only source by which he could see was a small but hugely bright green orb, suspended a few hundred feet in the air. He could barely make out the glint of metal snaking towards it, and realized that whatever was up there was chained into place.

Castiel noted the way that the hairs on his vessel's arms and back of the neck stood on end. Puzzled, he tilted his head, trying to determine why. Almost as if in answer, he heard a crash of thunder shoot out from ahead, crackling energy flinging itself across the sky.

And he heard the screams.

The Rack.

 **Thanks for reading! Reviews appreciated.**


	2. The Rack

_RECAP:_

 _The landscape grew darker until the only source by which he could see was a small but hugely bright green orb, suspended a few hundred feet in the air. He could barely make out the glint of metal snaking towards it, and realized that whatever was up there was chained into place._

 _Castiel noted the way that the hairs on his vessel's arms and back of the neck stood on end. Puzzled, he tilted his head, trying to determine why. Almost as if in answer, he heard a crash of thunder shoot out from ahead, crackling energy flinging itself across the sky._

 _And he heard the screams._

 _The Rack._

"I don't want to." Dean whispered weakly. It sounded morbidly like words that would come out of the mouth of a five year old, not past the lips of a man forced to live out the rest of his existence in Hell.

When hooks digging into flesh and the threat (and occasional actuality) of being struck by lightning wasn't enough, there was a bit extra thrown in for VIP guests to the Rack. It came in the form of a broad stone outcropping, suspended impossibly in the air, which allowed easy access for torturers.

"I'll ask again next year," the demon said from where she stood in front of Dean. She pierced another hook through his shoulder, forcing his arms over his head to keep him from moving, and set to work.

The year in hell passed unbearably slow. Dean was never one to beg. He only whispered 'stop', sometimes 'Sammy' in between sobs of pain. But his vocal cords long since stopped working that year- they had given out along with what little strength he had left. If the demon paid enough attention, she could barely see his bloodied lips moving to form the word, over and over again until he inevitably had to cough up more blood or scream.

His mouth would open, an animalistic look on his face as he tried to scream. But he couldn't, and even if it was possible there would be no one to help him.

He supposed they liked to see him scream himself hoarse.

After everything, the stabs, the slices, the burns, the _gutting-_ his body refused to give up on him, even when his mind did. It would somehow replenish itself to just past the point of excruciating, and the vicious cycle would begin again.

"This has been fun. Are you ready now?" It was a routine. Year in, year out. They tortured him, he tortured others.

Dean's first response was always _No._

 _I can handle whatever you throw at me._

 _Hit me with your best shot._

 _I'll never do that again, I'll never do your dirty work again. Never again._

That's what he would frantically repeat in his head. Fragments of sentences, the result of encompassing pain and confusion.

 _Never again, never again, never, never, never, no. . . no. . ._

But the word 'yes' somehow pushed past his lips most of the time, weak and battered. More of an expression of pain than an actual word.

During the 'conversation' his body had been regenerated partially to resemble a grotesquely humanoid form. The demon moved forward to remove him from the hooks piercing into his shoulders and sides. He closed his eyes against the sickening _schluck_ that repeated 5 times, once for each hook. His body didn't regenerate those wounds, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter to smother the pain that he'd grown so accustomed to.

There was one last squelch and he fell on his knees to the hot ground, falling on his side. He cried out when his newly acquired wounds shifted with his body.

His eyes were still closed, but now he could hear a droning whine. It grew louder and louder until it seemed to be coming from right in front of him. He cautiously opened his eyes to see the demon still standing in front of him, only now she was slumping awkwardly.

She was being held up by a knife in her back. It was pulled out, and with a last flicker of energy she fell to the floor. Dean felt temporary relief _,_ but. . . no, there was another black-haired demon right behind her, ready to take her place. . .

 **New chapters every week or so- follow/favorite for chapter updates!**


	3. The Broken Angel

**I don't know when the last time I updated was, lol oops**

 **Also thanks to BekaStar for your kind review. Sorry, I would've responded to it sooner, but for some reason I didn't get the notification that I got a review- so a happy and belated thanks to you, awesome person :D**

 _RECAP:_

 _His eyes were still closed, but now he could hear a droning whine. It grew louder and louder until it seemed to be coming from right in front of him. He cautiously opened his eyes to see the demon still standing in front of him, only now she was slumping awkwardly._

 _She was being held up by a knife in her back. It was pulled out, and with a last flicker of energy she fell to the floor. Dean felt temporary relief, but. . . no, there was another black-haired demon right behind her, ready to take her place. . ._

 _I've found him. I've found Dean Winchester,_ Castiel thought, directing the words to his brethren who had accompanied him and were currently fighting off the demon Legion.

Samael responded _, We'll begin to make our retreat._

Castiel was feeling some kind of emotion, although he didn't quite know how to describe it or what exactly the name of it was. All he knew was that his purpose, the whole reason for his existence, was right in front of him. It glowed in forest green, radiant glory, and he was taken aback by the sheer beauty and strength of this man's soul, the multiple emotions swarming within that Castiel would never know. Now he understood why he was sent to save this one man, this one soul over billions: it far surpassed all others.

 _Admittedly, it would be better if he didn't struggle,_ Castiel thought to himself. The righteous man, who had fallen to the ground after being taken off the Rack, was now trying to get away, half-crawling and half-falling until he stood, propping himself up on the rack that he had just been taken off of.

Castiel stepped forward, head tilted as he studied the man's soul. He heard footsteps behind him and adjusted the knife in his hands in preparation for the battle that would soon come.

The man flinched away at the sight, looking up at the unrevealed savior with a resigned, numb stare. His gaze shifted to the blade passively.

"Dean Winchester."

The man was momentarily taken aback by the lack of threat in the voice.

"We must go." Castiel said, and his words were proven by the now clearly audible footsteps approaching the stone slab. He stepped forward, trying to determine the source of the immensely powerful soul at his feet. He reached his hand out to help the man up.

His eyes widened when he saw the horde behind Castiel.

The demons manifested outside of their vessels, allowing them to move exponentially faster. Within a second they surrounded both man and angel in a dark cloud of smoke, and Castiel found himself blindly lashing out with his blade. They shredded and pummeled his grace with unseen fingers and fists, temporarily damaging him. He let his grace burn brighter to fight off the darkness, although not bright enough so as to damage the mortal. The light gained him temporary reprieve, and he was able to see the man at his feet, curled in a ball on the ground while demons tore at him. He clutched the man and hauled him up, but found that his legs weren't functioning properly. He couldn't move on his own.

Castiel held the man to his chest, the only position he could find that allowed him to fend off the demons. The man's body soon went limp, and the only sign that it was alive was the burning green soul that Castiel held.

It was an epic struggle. Castiel's power was barely concealed as he smote demon after demon, the glowing, burning blue power arcing uncontrollably through his eyes and hands. The reserves of his grace, barely used until this moment, strove to be brought to the surface

With Castiel's attention preoccupied on the demon horde, he failed to notice just how much power was emanating off of him. The righteous man was slumped against his chest, half-conscious and muttering some silent words. The bare skin of his arm that Castiel laid his hand on had been burned with angelic power, a mark that would stay with him forever, but the man stayed unconscious.

They were halfway up, and Castiel's invisible wings beat steadily in the struggle. He was only able to fly in short bursts. They were no longer being swarmed by the black clouds, although there were still too many to count.

From Perdition, a soul would see a flaming green orb being raised by an equally glowing blue entity.

From Heaven, the angels could hear a triumphant shout echoing over Angel Radio, so loud that they could feel it, followed by the words,

" _Dean Winchester has been saved."_


	4. Save My Soul

_RECAP:_

 _From Perdition, a soul would see a flaming green orb being raised by an equally glowing blue entity._

 _From Heaven, the angels could hear a triumphant shout echoing over Angel Radio, so loud that they could feel it, followed by the words,_

 _"_ _Dean Winchester has been saved."_

Once it travelled out of Hell, the green orb immediately flew to its owner, attracted like a magnet to the body it had inhabited. Castiel, now familiar with its unique soul signature, was easily able to follow it. It came to a stop at a small clearing in a deadwood forest.

Castiel barely saw a flash of green before the soul dove into the ground. It plunged itself into the dirt in front of a rickety wooden cross propped haphazardly in the wispy grass.

Castiel repeated the words he'd shouted on Angel Radio,

 _DEAN WINCHESTER HAS BEEN SAVED,_

heeding no mind to the fact that his voice transferred into raw energy here on earth. The forest flattened outward at his voice, leaving behind a crater of dirt about 8 feet wide around the grave site. The remains of what once were trees uprooted from the ground, buffeted back by the sudden wind and force of Castiel's voice.

 _Dean Winchester is alive_ , Castiel thought quietly.

 _My mission is complete._

He felt a vague drop in his stomach, similar to a falling feeling. His eyes were glued shut for a few moments as terrifying images flitted past his eyelids. He was suddenly able to breathe again and open his eyes. He still couldn't see anything, but he could feel the musty, unmoving air. He fumbled for his lighter in its usual place in his pocket, and flicked it open to see that he was face to face with wooden oak boards.

He never expected to wake up again, and he certainly didn't expect to wake up like _this._

He didn't remember much. Just the vague memory of dying at the paws and maws of hell hounds. Past that. . . He remembered other, different pain, but he didn't know the hows or wheres. He thought it must have something to do with those images he just saw.

But he did know that if he didn't do something, he was going to die again- soon. He was in his own coffin, he could see that now: wood surrounded him claustrophobically on all sides, and he could smell the strong earthy smell permeating the air.

He only briefly wondered why he hadn't been cremated, as was the norm for hunters. _Sam couldn't follow through,_ he thought.

 _Sam!_ He thought. He tried shouting for help, but was surprised by the creaky attempt that made its way past his lips. Panic rose, fluttering in his chest as he tried again to shout.

 _Doesn't matter. No one could hear me anyway_. What little air was in here would soon be gone.

There was a jutting edge near his head that he was able to grab onto. Without thinking, he yanked on the weakened wood, bringing down a steady stream of dirt on his upper body. He barely had time to close his eyes before he was completely smothered in the avalanche, and all he could hear was the steady rushing of dirt as it filled the coffin. He was able to twist around towards the gaping hole that he made, which didn't really look anything like an opening, just an even darker abyss. He kept his eyes and mouth closed as he dug his way upward.

After a much shorter amount of time than he expected, his hand felt fresh air. His other followed, and he hauled himself out with one arm. His head finally broke through the soft ground and he sucked in the breath he had been holding. Through his closed eyelids he could see the orange light of the day. He squinted, breathing erratically as he hauled himself the rest of the way out of the dirt.

He lay on his back in the dead grass, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden change in light. He shielded them with his hand as he sat up, then looked down at himself.

He was- fine? Definitely didn't _look_ like a corpse. But how-?

How long had he been dead?

He finally looked up to see his surroundings. There was his grave just to his left.

And there was a swath of dead forest in a perfect circle around it, creating a clearing. The trees were flattened, bending away from the grave. Dean stumbled to a standing position, swaying slightly.

 _Oh, Sammy, what did you do?_

 **Please let me know if you see any mistakes, I had some trouble with copying and pasting these past two chapters. Most of this is already written- look for more chapters in the next two weeks or so! Thanks for reading**


	5. The Price of Magic

**The following is the scene in Lazarus Rising, when Dean escapes his grave and goes to the gas station. The events are not my original ideas, but the descriptions of them are.**

 _RECAP:_

 _He finally looked up to see his surroundings. There was his grave just to his left._

 _And there was a swath of dead forest in a perfect circle around it._

 _The trees were flattened, bending away from the grave to create a clearing. Dean stumbled to a standing position, swaying slightly._

Sammy, what did you do?

He needed to find a phone- needed to call Sam. But he had no idea where he was, so he walked in a straight line through the fallen trees in the hopes of finding a road.

After an hour of walking, the sun moved right over his head, intensifying the presumably-summer heat. Dean still had no idea how long he'd been dead, but he figured it'd been a few months. It seemed to already be summer, if the sun beating down on him was anything to judge by.

He finally came across a road, and after another half hour of walking (thankfully) in the right direction, he came across a closed gas station.

The door was locked. He took the flannel shirt that he'd tied around his waist and wrapped it around his hand, punching the glass in order to unlock the door handle on the other side.

He walked in, making a beeline for the water. He grabbed 2 bottles, chugging one and saving the other for later.

Being dead for a few months had made him really thirsty.

He surveyed the gas station and found a rack of newspapers near the door. He grabbed the first one and did a double-take when he saw the date. September 19th.

4 months after he died.

He'd been dead for _4 months_.

It appeared that no one had been (and in fact no one would be) in the gas station for quite a while, so he took the time to gain his bearings. He tried getting the grave-dirt of his face in a sink near the back.

Looking up in the small and age-worn mirror, the gravity of his situation suddenly fell on him. He was _alive._ After everything, it seemed too good to be true, which meant it almost definitely was. He lifted up his shirt to assess unseen damage, remembering instantly the hellhounds ripping at him.

But there was nothing. Just smooth, tan skin. He wasn't even pale.

Almost as if he'd never died.

He dropped his shirt as a twinge of dull pain spiked bone-deep in his upper arm. He lifted his shirt sleeve, and was surprised to see an inflamed red welt growing on his right bicep. Pulling back his sleeve all the way, he was even more shocked to see that it was in the shape of a hand.

Sam must've hit the books hard for this one. There was nothing that Dean could think of that would leave this kind of mark. Probably some kind of dark magic.

 _And all magic comes with a price_ , Dean thought.

Dean was borrowing money from the cash register when it happened. To a normal person, it would have just been some strange electrical occurrence, but to his hunter-trained mind, it immediately raised red flags.

First, the small, 80s-looking tv set started buzzing with static. He cautiously flipped off the switch. As soon as he did that, the old radio came on, dialing between stations to create a mix of music and crackling static. The tv set came back on with more white noise.

A faint hum, barely noticeable until now, suddenly grew in pitch until it became a piercing whine.

Dean began looking for salt: he didn't have any weapons with him, and didn't want to take his chances with a ghost. He found a few cans, and went to the nearest window to salt it. The whining sound continued to aggravate his senses, seeming to pervade the very air around him.

It reached an apex. He paused, trying to block the sound out from his ears to no effect.

Too late, Dean realized, as the window he had been salting the sill of suddenly exploded. He ducked, throwing himself on the ground as all of the gas station windows that had once served as walls suddenly exploded, creating a dangerous rain of glass shards. He ran to the other side of the gas station, towards the door, when the windows on that side suddenly burst.

Dean waited, watching the hauntingly beautiful cascade of shimmering glass as it poured down. He was still curled up on the floor next to the cash register as the ringing gradually subsided, leaving destruction in its wake. After a few minutes he finally regained his hearing enough to judge that it was, more or less, safe.

He stood, careful to avoid cutting his hands on the glass shards dusting the floor.

The windows were all shattered. But there was no sign of a demon or any other paranormal entity, at least none that he knew of. Only the high-pitched ringing.

Whatever _thing_ Sam made a deal with, it was following him. Biding its time.

Unless it was Dean himself that had caused the windows to shatter. . . Unless Sam used magic on him. To raise him. No, there were no incantations that powerful. . .

One thing was for certain. Dean needed to find Sam, and they needed to figure out what was going on. Before it was too late.

Before Sam was too far into whatever deal he had made to back out.

 **Duhn duhn duuuhhnnn- Did Sam make a deal? Or is Dean now some evil spawn that was able to commit the unholy act of rising from the dead? (If you don't know the answer, shame on you, you haven't been paying enough attention to the show or this fanfiction)**

 **Read on to find out!**

 **(Review?)**


	6. Not About Angels

**This chapter is from Cas' perspective.**

 **So, y'know, if the language/diction sounds weird, that's why. Because Castiel talks like Spock.**

 _ **RECAP:**_

 _Whatever thing Sam made a deal with, it was following him. Biding its time._

 _Unless it was Dean himself that had caused the windows to shatter. . . Unless Sam used magic on him. To raise him. No, there were no incantations that powerful. . ._

 _One thing was for certain. Dean needed to find Sam, and they needed to figure out what was going on. Before it was too late._

 _Before Sam was too far into whatever deal he had made to back out._

Castiel had been following Dean ever since the man escaped his grave: he'd seen the way the man warily eyed the destruction that the angel had unwittingly caused. And, although he had duties in Heaven, Castiel stayed behind on earth. He didn't quite know why, he just felt as though his job wasn't truly finished- as if there was more to the story than simply raising the man from Perdition, and now he needed to do more for this green-souled human.

What "more" entailed, exactly, he didn't know.

Either way, he wanted to keep an eye on Dean. So he followed him, guiding him towards civilization, making sure no further harm would come to him from supernatural and human entities alike.

Because no matter what his brothers and sisters said, this man was not a mere pawn in the game.

Castiel knew he was anything but. The Righteous Man would not be a pawn, no- he would be a knight, a _king_ : if he fell, there would be no hope. The game would be over.

So he followed him into a gas station.

Castiel continued to watch Dean, even when he was called up to Heaven to report his latest success. Time passed in a flash for an angel, but to a human's perception Dean had clawed his way out of Hell no more than 2 or 3 hours ago. Not an exceptionally long time for Castiel to not report to Heaven, but time nonetheless.

But that didn't matter, really. Because all Castiel really wanted (although, being an angel, he couldn't legitimately say he'd ever wanted anything) was to see Dean safe.

So. The gas station.

Castiel, despite his preference for humans, had rarely had any experience with humankind, so it's excusable to say that the cosmic entity really didn't know any better when he tried to speak to Dean. The soundwaves of the ancient Enochian language unfortunately didn't translate into anything intelligible to the ears of one Dean Winchester. Rather, they generated a rather painful ringing.

Castiel's questions of concern, somewhere along the lines of "Are you in good health?", or perhaps a more modern translation, "Are you okay?" (the literal translation is easily lost, as only the angels and a select few mortals are entrusted with the knowledge of the Divine Language), remained unheard amidst the sudden shattering of windows and sprinkling glass. Castiel abruptly stopped speaking, but even his simple ethereal presence caused the very air to shimmer and pulse with a barely contained power.

His words hung in the air until the ringing eventually dissipated and the last window shattered. Castiel felt a pang of- _something,_ he didn't quite know what, as he saw the destruction he'd wrought, with Dean huddled in the midst of the jagged shards.

He didn't like the strange feeling. At all.

He suddenly heard his name shouted over Angel Radio. Maybe his siblings had been calling him for some time now, but he only just realized it. They were calling him back to Heaven: this time, he couldn't refuse. There was no use for him here anyway. His task was complete: Dean was alive and well, and so long as Castiel didn't make the mistake of speaking without a vessel again, Dean would stay that way.

That would be something he needed to worry about later, finding a vessel. If he wanted to talk to Dean face to face without burning his eyes out and eventually making him deaf, he would need to find one. Most of his brothers and sisters already had vessels, but seeing as how this was supposedly his greatest achievement, Castiel never had need of one.

Now was different. Now there was Dean.

He briefly left for Heaven, reluctantly leaving Dean behind in that fateful gas station.

That's not to say, however, that Castiel wasn't watching him. Because he swore, from this moment on, that Dean would have a guardian angel.

God knew he needed one.

 **As always, reviews are appreciated (lol who am I kidding, I squeal like a fangirl every time I get one). Thanks for reading :D**

 **Also, I don't have a beta or anyone reading these chapters before I post them, so if you see any mistakes, just hollaback, girl (or boy, or whatever you identify as).**


	7. St Jimmy

**Tbh I forgot about this, but inspiration has struck. Thanks to anyone who's still willing to read this.**

 _ **RECAP:**_

 _He briefly left for Heaven, reluctantly leaving Dean behind in that fateful gas station._

 _That's not to say, however, that Castiel wasn't watching him. Because he swore, from this moment on, that Dean would have a guardian angel._

 _God knew he needed one._

* * *

He knew where he was going. Of course he did. Anywhere but there- that's a destination, right?

The gas station was far behind him. It was almost sunset. Crickets were chirring on the roadside. Dean was able to hitchhike a few miles further- which was surprising, because he sure as hell wouldn't have pulled over for someone that looked like they'd just crawled out of hell. The man was probably about his age. He looked like the dad type. He asked if Dean was in trouble. If he needed help. Dean lied, said no to both, and didn't offer any further explanation as to why he was out in the middle of nowhere.

The ride was silent. Uncomfortably so. The man had already agreed to take him to the first motel they came across. Past that- Dean really had no idea what to do.

The man tried to make conversation.

"You got anybody?" As they passed under another streetlight, a halo formed on his hair.

"Just my brother." Dean responded. He really wasn't one for small talk. He was too distracted, mind racing as he tried to piece together the events of whatever the heck just happened at the gas station, which was rapidly growing smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.

The man nodded. The gas station disappeared behind them as the road curved.

"You know, if you're in trouble-"

"I'm not," Dean interrupted. At least, he hoped he wasn't. Depended on how stupid of a deal Sam made. The man raised his hands on the steering wheel in a you-win gesture. Mystery man was living up to his name.

After that, well- the man got the message. No questions. No answers.

Dean was grateful when he pulled over an hour later in front of an old motel with a busted-out sign. The sign read once read simply 'Motel', but now it was just a t.

The car stopped. The man dug around for something in his pocket. He pulled out a wallet.

"Here," he took out a few 20s and tried to shove them in Dean's hand, but he didn't take them.

"No, I can't take your money-"

"You're not taking it. I'm giving it to you."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but he could tell the man wasn't going to back down on this.

"Thank you."

"I hope you find whatever you're looking for," the man smirked, almost sadly.

Dean nodded. He hoped he did too. He opened the door and got out. Gravel crunched under the car's tires as the man pulled away.

"Wait-" the man had driven a few feet away before Dean realized that he hadn't even bothered asking for a name.

He stopped, leaning his head out the window. "What's your name?" Dean asked.

"Jimmy," he offered a half wave, "Nice to meet you."

"Thanks again, Jimmy." Dean waited until the car was well down the road before turning to the motel. The paint was peeling- there were some obvious attempts at covering the graffiti in one corner of the wall, but they failed miserably.

Motels were one thing that he certainly didn't miss.

* * *

Turns out, wherever he was buried wasn't very far from Bobby's place. Dean crashed for one night before making the rest of the hour trek to Bobby's, which gave him ample time to clear his head.

The door flew open, revealing the very disgruntled hunter on the other side. Dean didn't know what to say. He hadn't planned this far ahead.

"Surprise."

Bobby, to Dean's dismay, didn't look too ecstatic. And really- Surprise? Dean had an hour to think about the first thing he'd say when he saw Bobby, and "surprise" was all he could come up with?

"What the hell are you? Shapeshifter?" Bobby stepped back just as Dean stepped through the door, hands raised in a peaceful gesture.

Bobby's hand wrapped around a silver blade on the counter near the door, hidden from Dean's sight. He whipped it out, but luckily Dean jumped back in time so it only nicked him on the arm. It produced a wince, and blood, but no signs of the flesh being that of a shapeshifter.

Bobby got him in a chokehold somehow- apparently the old man still had some moves of his own- but Dean threw him off. Bobby stumbled a few feet and picked up something off the table in the kitchen. Dean flinched back as holy water was splashed on his face- again, no effect other than mildly annoying him. Bobby stood there, flask of water in hand, breath heaving.

"Bobby," Dean took a breath, composing himself, because when did he expect to ever see Bobby again?, "it's me."

Bobby stopped mid-motion. Dean relaxed fractionally, but Bobby threw a handful of rock salt at him. It fell in the folds of his jacket- one piece got in his eye, and he cursed a few words worthy of any sailor. Dean shot him a one-eyed look, pressing his hand to the other, and he threw his free hand up in exasperation before Bobby finally lowered the blade, still tinged with blood.

"Boy, you damn near gave me a heart attack," Bobby stepped back, dropping the blade. He gave Dean a once over, as if to make sure it really was him, and that he didn't have claws or fangs (or injuries), before crushing him in a bear hug.

Bobby led him further into the house, depositing him wordlessly on one of the overstuffed couches in the living room. He disappeared for a moment in the kitchen and came back with two glasses of scotch.

He set one down in front of Dean and took the other for himself. Dean nodded in thanks. Alcohol was vital at times like these.

"How?" Bobby asked simply.

"Sammy must've-" Dean sighed, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was as he looked down, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked back up. "I think he made a deal."

Bobby squinted his eyes, then decidedly shook his head. "No. Not a deal."

Dean perked up. Bobby knew what happened? Maybe he could tell him where Sam was.

"Sam- he gave up. He _tried_ to make a deal, but no demon would accept it."

"What are you saying?"

"Whatever got you out of hell- Sam had nothing to do with it."

Well, that was great. Dean was back, with no apparent explanation- nobody had answers, and his brother gave up on him _after_ explicitly doing the exact opposite of what Dean _told_ him to do by trying to sell his soul.

"Where is Sam, Bobby?" This was more complicated than he thought. Why couldn't things be simple for once?

"Last I heard- Lakewood, Colorado," Bobby's tone implied that 'last he heard' had been quite some time ago.

"Last you heard?" Dean voiced this concern.

"I've only seen him a few times these past four months. And the few times I have, he hasn't been very antsy to stay and chat it up. He-" Bobby's voice dropped conspiratorially, and Dean leaned forward, "he's different, Dean. After you died."

"Different how?"

"If I knew how, I woulda told you, idjit."

"Well, this oughta be a fun family reunion," Dean held his head in his hands, twining his fingers through his hair.

"When are things ever normal with you two?"

"Heh," Dean dragged a hand down his face, downing the scotch before abruptly standing up.

"Thanks, Bobby. For everything."

* * *

Lakewood. That was a start. At least Sam left the Impala at Bobby's. It was too hard for him to see, day in and day out. It wasn't his car- never would be.

Dean said his goodbyes to Bobby, told him he'd call and check in, let him know if he found Sam. Bobby pointed out the Impala in the junkyard, a diamond amongst lumps of coal- she was shined up, Dean saw, as he removed the tarp from over her. He ran a hand along her sleek curves, admiring the car he never thought he'd see again- feeling her wheel under his hands, smelling the well-worn and treated leather, that new-old-car-mixed-with-burgers smell. He turned the engine, savoring the familiar chudder before she roared to life.

Lakewood. Sam. It'd probably take a day or so for Dean to get there. He just hoped that Sam was still there. From there- he'd bs a plan, as always.

When he was about an hour from Lakewood, Dean looked up an online phone book- their paper counterparts had long since gone extinct- and went through the entries for motels. Lakewood was a pretty big place. There were probably over 20 motels, and by the time Dean checked them all Sam might already be gone.

He glanced over the entries, trying to decide where best to start- stalling- before he realized.

"Oh, Sammy, you glorious bastard," Dean chuckled under his breath.

Of course. They had a contingency that Sam had come up with- if they ever got separated, go to the first motel in the phone book. He just hoped that Sam still followed it. Maybe he was too hopeful.

* * *

 **Keep an eye out for more, and I'll hopefully see you soon!**


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